


Of Cauldron Makers and Cloaks

by tarie



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-16
Updated: 2012-10-16
Packaged: 2017-11-16 11:36:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/539009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tarie/pseuds/tarie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He wondered if the man would ever speak to him. He wondered if he actually wanted the man to ever speak to him. There was some sort of a thrill from being watched this way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Cauldron Makers and Cloaks

The Leaky Cauldron wasn't the most brilliant place on earth. Tom had never really been one for housekeeping or keeping up with the repairs and, well...there was only so much that one could do with magic. 

The dingy state of the pub hadn't bothered Harry the first time he'd set foot in there at age eleven and it certainly wasn't anything he was inclined to fuss over now at the ripe old age of eighteen. It wasn't as if Harry was there for its stunning decor. Oh no. He was there for the drinks.

All right. So that was a bit of a lie.

He was there for the drinks and the company. 

It was an odd sort of company. 

Had Hermione known where he went every Wednesday evening and found out exactly what he did while out and what went on, she wouldn't have agreed that Harry had any company at all. For how can one consider themselves as having company when not a single soul ever joins them at their table? But Harry hadn't ever really been the conventional sort and so company was what he considered himself to have on these Wednesday evenings.

He wondered if the man would ever speak to him.

He wondered if he actually _wanted_ the man to ever speak to him.

There was some sort of a thrill from being watched this way. 

It was very different from the ways Harry was used to being watched.

Usually people watched Harry just because they knew he was The Boy Who Lived or whatever it was they were calling him these days. Ron and Hermione saw to it that Harry didn't pick up any issues of the _Daily Prophet_ these days because of the horrid things being printed about him. Apparently the wizarding world expected him to attend his Leaving Ceremony at Hogwarts only two months ago and go out immediately to challenge and then kill Voldemort so that everyone could live happily ever after.

It didn't really work that way. It wasn't as if Harry could ring up Voldemort and schedule a death match with his personal assistant or some shite, as Ron would say. The wizarding world was on edge but Harry couldn't fault them for that. God knew he was on edge himself. He just wanted to get 'it' out of the way and be done. Either he'd die and that would be the end of things or he'd kill Voldemort and life would go on. Truth be told, he wasn't really ready for either scenario to occur.

What he was ready for, however, was to get pissed. 

He was ready to get pissed and feel the weight of the man's stare right in that little dip between his shoulder blades. 

Harry never really got a good look at the man. Hell, who knew how long the man had been watching him. Harry had only noticed his presence at the establishment perhaps three months ago. He'd gone up to the counter and ordered a Cauldron Maker. After tipping Tom a few Knuts he turned back around to head towards his table and caught sight of a thin man obscured partially by shadow and partially by the hood of his cape looking in his direction. After taking a sip of his drink, Harry casually glanced over his shoulder to see if the man perhaps had been watching Tom. Tom wasn't there. It took Harry only a brief moment to realise that the barkeep had wandered over to a table to talk to a patron. The man had been watching him. Strangely nonplussed about it, Harry raised his glass to the man and returned to his table.

He hadn't thought anything of it until the following Wednesday when he'd felt the small hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He was being watched. It hadn't taken him long to spy the hooded man back in the corner.

Harry had went back and forth to the bar to order a tonne of Cauldron Makers that night. 

As Wednesday after Wednesday went by, Harry found that he began to look forward to the man and his watchful eyes. It was almost comforting, in a way.

Hermione and Ron, he knew, would think it creepy and warn him about being careful and keeping one hand on his wand at all time and...oh hell. Who was he kidding? If they knew he hung about the Leaky Cauldron and had a _routine_ about it, they wouldn't let him out of the bloody flat. They wouldn't find out though. Harry was determined of that. He'd started sneaking out to the Leaky Cauldron when they'd been in their last month at Hogwarts and they hadn't caught on. He was certain that he had many more months of nipping out to this part of London to come before they suspected anything, really. 

Vaguely through the haze of alcohol clouding his mind, Harry realised that Tom had made the Last Call of the evening. As he was want to leave when the Last Call was declared rather than wait around and stumble off down Diagon Alley or the like with the assort low-lives and riff-raff that hung about still at this hour, Harry drained what was probably his twelfth Cauldron Maker of the evening. After turning the cup upside-down and setting it on the bar, he took up his cloak and made his way over to the brick wall. It took a few tries but eventually Harry got the tap-tap-tapping pattern of the bricks right with his wand. In a matter of moments he was out in the dimly-lit streets of Diagon Alley, walking very close to the buildings for he needed to occasionally pause and lean against a window or door until he got some of his wits about him again. There was no way he was in any sort of shape to Apparate back to his flat just yet; he had to work off a good bit of the drunkenness first. He didn't think Ron or Hermione would take too kindly to him splinching himself. 

He stumbled down the street as best he could, stopping at Quality Quidditch Supplies and then Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions for short periods of time, leaning against the walls of each shoppe and collecting himself enough to move on. His footsteps sounded loud and almost tinny in the empty street, almost oddly so. He was warm, so very warm, and it was very possible that he could fall asleep standing there outside of Gringotts. Harry was damned sure that he was too knackered to try the Apparating thing yet but he knew he ought to get home soon; Ron and Hermione were likely worried enough about him as it was. They had every reason to be; Wednesdays were usually the days that the likes of Mundungus Fletcher was assigned to watch over him for the Order. But what they -- and the rest of the Order -- didn't know was that Harry usually shared a Cauldron Maker or two with old Dung every Wednesday night and then dismissed the old codger to go out and peddle his stolen goods down on Knockturn Alley.

He was practically falling asleep and...

Knockturn Alley. 

There it was, darker than Diagon Alley and seemingly more quiet. Harry glanced this way and that, worrying at his bottom lip until he decided to sod it all and head down there. He needed to sober or wake up pretty damned quickly and there was only one way to accomplish that and not use magic to do it. Oh, Harry wasn't foolish enough to try a charm on himself yet. Knowing his luck, he'd hex his nose into a treacle tart or something. No, what Harry needed to do to cut through the haze and make himself more alert didn't call for magic of any sort.

He needed a wank and he needed one right then and there. 

Well, he conceded, maybe not _right_ then and there, for Diagon Alley was much too public (even at half-two in the morning) a place for that sort of thing. Knockturn Alley, on the other hand, was just the sort of place where a bloke could get his pull on at half-two and not be given a second glance by any sort that happened to walk by at that ungodly hour. 

And that little decision was how it came to be that Harry began to wank in the darkness of Knockturn Alley, tucked away in a narrow pathway between a shoppe that had a tonne of shrunken heads in the display window and another that had adverts for poisonous candles plastered on nearly every exterior surface. 

Head thrown back, barely registering that the stunted moans permeating the air were his own, Harry thrust his cock into his fist over and over again. His other hand was underneath his jumper, fingers tugging and twisting and tweaking a nipple, matching the rhythm of his snapping hips.

And there was that feeling again suddenly. The weight of a pair of eyes burning into that shallow space between his shoulders.

"Don't stop," a man's low voice commanded.

As if he could do anything of the sort now! How could he when he was so very close and someone - his _company_ \- was watching him?

But for some reason, Harry did stop. He stopped and leaned against the grimy wall behind him, one hand still on his cock and the other still teasing his nipple.

Harry said nothing. He stared at the man, squinting in the darkness, panting.

"I said don't stop," the man said, stepping into the narrow pathway. Although he was thin, he had very broad shoulders, shoulders that almost took up the entire width of the alleyway. 

Harry lifted his chin defiantly, a rush of adrenaline coursing through his veins. His company was here. His company had _followed_ him. He could now watch his watcher.

"I don't take orders," Harry tossed back, suddenly quite awake. Smirking at the man, wanting to test him, he made a show of loosening his grip on his cock and then pulling his hand away.

"I think you can. You just don't want to."

Harry closed his eyes, replaying the man's words in his head. The voice. The cadence. It was so familiar-- he could almost place it--

There were hands, warm hands with silky smooth skin suddenly brushing against his. Silky smooth and delicate hands with a firm grip that were unexpectedly pinning Harry's hands by his side.

His eyes flew open, followed quickly by the slightest gaping of his mouth.

" _You_ -" he managed to get out before his company produced a wand and conjured a tie out of thin air.

"Me." So smug. So _fucking_ smug. Why hadn't Harry noticed it before? The cut of the cloak alone should have been a tip. It was obviously tailor-made for him and the fabric-- the fucking _fabric_ likely cost more than twenty Firebolts. 

Harry idly thought that he might ask what that tie was for but the question died on his lips when one of those silky smooth, delicate and aristocratic hands pushed back the hood and there was no longer any denying that the company he'd been keeping for weeks on end now had been Draco Malfoy.

"I suppose," Malfoy said in a conversational tone while he looped one end of the tie around one of Harry's wrists and made a knot, "that you're wanting to know why, Potter."

He yanked on the unoccupied end of the tie, pulling Harry away from the wall. Those delicate and aristocratic hands, Harry soon found, were awfully firm. They pushed at his shoulder and spun him around so that his free hand was presented to Malfoy. Only a moment or two passed and then Harry was in something of a bind; both of his hands were tied behind his back and Draco Malfoy's eyes were glittering with something rather primal. 

And oddly, Harry realised that he didn't _care_ why. He really didn't.

All he cared about right then and there was the fact that his cock was still fucking begging for release and that something better happen soon to alleviate that little problem or else he'd have to teach Malfoy a lesson for interrupting a bloke when he's got his wank on. 

Licking his lips, Harry nodded. "I do want to know why, Malfoy," he said, tugging lightly on his binds experimentally. "I want to know why you're not doing a fucking thing about getting me off when obviously I've been getting _you_ off unknowingly for weeks."

Malfoy laughed. "You really are a comedian, Potter," he retorted, circling Harry slowly like an animal on the hunt. " _I've_ been the one getting _you_ off. Don't tell me you've not had to stop on the way home to pull it off more than a few times the past couple of months."

Harry scowled; the tosser had him there.

"Shove off--"

Harry never got to finish his sentence, not that he minded. Malfoy had advanced quickly, rocking his hips against Harry's, the fabric of his trousers rubbing painfully so over Harry's erection. The force of Malfoy's thrust sent Harry flying back against the grotty wall. He didn't mind so much, though, as soon Malfoy's slender frame was covering his. Harry could do nothing but be at Malfoy's mercy because of his restrained hands and, for once, he didn't mind not being in control of the situation. 

Malfoy's breath was warm against his ear, tickling a little as he quietly told Harry just what he intended to do to him. "You're mine, Potter," he said in a low, calm voice, still moving his hips against Harry's, trapping his erection between them. "You're mine. You've always been. You just have been too blinded by Gryffindor mentality to see it. We're alike, you and I."

"Yes," Harry breathed, bucking impatiently against Malfoy. Oh fuck yes. He'd agree to anything right then if it meant the tension pooling in his balls would be going away soon. "Yes yes yes yes yes--" He was chanting now, the word bubbling over his lips again and again as if it were some ancient spell that he needed, that was _necessary_ for survival.

" _Yes_ ," Malfoy hissed through gritted teeth, one hand wrapping firmly around Harry's cock, "you are. We are."

Harry didn't think he'd ever see anything more beautiful as long as he lived than he did just then as he watched Draco Malfoy suck him off. 

Draco Malfoy sucked cock like a two-knut slag; his cheeks caved in slightly from the pressure as he sucked and his mouth released, then tightened up, then released again. Harry could make out through squinted eyes a flush just above Malfoy's cheeks. He wondered if any other parts of Malfoy had started to colour like that as well. 

He thrust with abandon into the warm crevice of Malfoy's mouth, feeling the head of his cock almost xylophone over the ridges on the roof and then--

_Oh fuck--_

"Fucking-- God-- take it--" Harry gibbered helplessly, emptying himself into Malfoy's mouth before falling back against the wall, his bound hands scraping against the stone. 

Malfoy did take it. He took it, swallowing it all before releasing Harry's cock with a soft pop. Licking his lips, he rose to his feet, undoing the closures of his own trousers.

"Now Potter," he murmured, placing his hands on Harry's waist, "I'm going to take you as well."

Harry's eyes rounded. "Mal--"

Malfoy's name got lost as mouth met mouth. It didn't matter, Harry decided. Malfoy chose him. _He_ chose Malfoy. Maybe each of them had their own reasons and their own agendas but right now none of that mattered. It was half-two in the morning in Knockturn Alley and Draco Malfoy's tongue had ran along his cock and now it was sweeping against his tongue. 

Harry moaned into Malfoy's mouth, tasting Cauldron Makers and spearmint. It wasn't a likely combination but, then again, neither was Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy.

So caught up in the snogging, it took Harry a moment to notice that Malfoy had lifted him up, wrapping Harry's legs around Malfoy's waist and pressing his back against the wall.

Pulling back and gulping for air, he stared at Malfoy, a silent question on his lips.

Malfoy's own lips twitched in response and then there were fingers pressing at his opening, pushing past the tight ring of muscle and it felt so fucking _good_ , better than flying almost--

But _this_ \-- this feeling of being filled, of having Malfoy's cock in his arse-- Now _that_ was something. Harry had no hands with which to find purchase on Malfoy's frame and had no choice but to lean forward and bury his face in the curve of his neck. He moved his hips up and down as Malfoy drove into him, biting and sucking on the soft skin of Malfoy's neck. Bucking. Moaning. Whimpering. They were both crying out, both _feeling_ , both _fucking_ and Harry could have sworn that he saw stars. 

And then it was over, Malfoy setting Harry down on his feet and carefully arranging both of their clothing again.

Harry silently watched him, chest heaving with laboured breathing.

"You look like you could use a drink, Potter," Malfoy said slowly, one brow quirking as he picked up his cloak from the ground.

"I'd ask you if you'd like one," Harry returned, slowly turning around to present his bound hands to Malfoy for release, "but you've just had one."

"True," Malfoy said, casually unknotting the tie from around Harry's wrists, "but I'm feeling a bit parched again."

Harry forced back a grin.

"I think," he said, hooking his fingers through Malfoy's belt loops and pulling him close, "that I ought to have my drink first."


End file.
